


Quiet

by VexedServos (TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Beating, Cum Marking, Double Penetration, Electrocution, Force-feeding aphrodisiac drugs, Gen, Group Sex, Hiding From Assailants, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-consensual surgery, Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Serious Injuries, Sexual Violence, Sexual injuries, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Suicide Idealisation, Swearing, Torture, Whump, Whump Prompt Challenge, extreme penetration, forced watching of pornography, mentions of past rape, non-con, this is a very Rung heavy fic - very brief mention of other characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherEyeIsNotResponsive/pseuds/VexedServos
Summary: Short fic born from the July Whump Prompt: “Shhhh, you have to keep quiet.”Rung has found himself in the spotlight of a very violent group of mechs aboard the Lost Light. They have a schedule, and will do everything they can to keep it. Even if Rung escapes. Especially if Rung escapes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a very niche market, but hopefully someone will enjoy. And if not? Oh well, it sure as hell exists now.
> 
> Due to the variety of tags between chapters , I’ll be putting chapter specific tags in the summary of each chapter. Please read the tags before reading. 
> 
> This chapter has:  
> Whump, past torture, hiding from assailants, serious injuries, and mentions of past rape

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

He’s in the vents again.

Rung’s frame creaks with every movement, as he forces himself to crawl on servos and knees through the spacious vents. The pain has subsided now to a dull ache, pulsing, ever present, to the tune of his spark.

Thank Primus for the pain blockers he managed to take earlier - one of the few left that have any effect on his old frame. Though the name of the drug should be subject for...review. You’d need a medic, or honest to Primus emergency procedures, to completely block major sensors, but at least they manage to keep everything low enough for for his processor to stay on task instead of crying over a barely mended frame.

He glances at the glitching map illuminated in his H.U.D, and guesstimates another mile until he reaches the medibay. Up to a day’s worth of travel. Although, if he’s a level up he could make it to Ultra Magnus’s office and file a report and get help there. Pain blockers or no, his processor’s too foggy know which of the two levels he’s on.

No matter where I am, they’ll always be there, and they’ll always be watching and listening for me. They just want their favourite play thing back, to fondle, and break apart again and again. And all it’d take is just one loud noise for them to find me again and rip me screaming from the vents. 

His vents shudder and vision wavers. No, no, not this. He can confirm if they’re near. Just listen. He holds his vents, and remains quiet for a moment.

For two moments.

He can only hear the ship’s hum, and the misshapen clockwork of his frame’s internals. No chasers, no violent grins, and no.. just no one in audial range.

He releases, long ex-vent wheezing from his frame. It itches, and he coughs twice before he’s able to quiet himself. Loud, he can hear them echoing further down the vents.

He freezes, and remains there longer than his processor can parse. If they find him again there’s no knowing what they’d do. Would they tear him apart for ruining the good times they were having? Would they thank him in the cruelest ways for giving them a good hunt? Would they destroy his glasses? Have they already destroyed his office? The firewalls on his datapads are the strongest he could get, but would they be able to hack in? What would happen to his patient files, his notes?

Servo digging into his chassis, breathing rapidly, optics wide in fear. What would happen to them? Would they release the data and all the personal files? Would they use that information to create a personal hell for each? Would they record it? Sell it? Report him for improper practices and have his license revoked?

Too many things, too many worries.

And too many servos.

He freezes, all around him servos groping, ripping, pulling wires and laughter. Too much laughter from dozens of mechs, laughing at his panic, laughing at his exposed internals, his spark. They’re fondling his spark, and the charge is too much for him to handle. Their medic’s in the corner keeping watch and they’re laughing, and glossia and blue blinding optics are upon him and there’s something hot and sticky against his abdomen. And -

No. 

And no, he’s here. In the vents he is here. It’s dark, no one is around, and the metal of his chassis is rough, and his servos are orange like the ark, and it smells like cleaning solution and old energon.

He reads the reminder that flashes across his H.U.D.

[ _My name is Rung of Pious Pools and the Lost Light. I’m a psychiatrist, and my hobby is model ship making. I’m roughly 8 million years old, and I will survive another day.]_

Frag all of this he thinks through gritted dentia and leaking optics, this time he won’t be found. He’ll make his way to safety, he’ll recover his datapads, and he’ll survive long enough to make sure they don’t get a chance to do anything to anyone else. He licks his chapped lips, still rattled but determined, and continues along his way.

 

***

  
It’s not long before his frame in shaking violently from the strain of moving, again. His vision swims, and he allows himself a moment. A moment, which his fuel tank eagerly reminds him with a full frame flashing red warning that he’s awfully low.. on fuel.

He delicately twists his frame and lowers himself into a sitting position, careful not to bang up against the walls of the vent.

Out of reflex, he pulls a stolen energon cube out of subspace with shaking servos. His overclocked brain struggles to calculate if this is actually an appropriate time to refuel.

After too long of a wait, it decides on yes, please.

With shaking servos, he fumbles with the seal. A lot harder to remove since the last time he had one. Though the last cube was... forced upon him when their medic, forceful/condescending/terrible medic, fixing up the day’s worth of fun. Fun, fun...

No arms left to insert a line. Coughing up energon old and new. Buckling against restraints, and screaming wet hoarse screams as medic opens up another wound to inspect the damage.

His helm snaps back as he’s shunted back into reality. With a long rattling ex-vent, he takes a sip.

It would only take one loud noise for them to find him again. Almost makes him laugh. How silly if he were to set his cube down too hard, or maybe if his vents become too laboured. So easy for them to hear for… him to quiet the mind and listen.

He quiets himself, and relaxes, and focuses his listening inwards.

His frame creaks as it sits, machinery once fine-tuned clatters in their sockets, missing their marks but somehow, miraculously still he functions. Vents: laboured, long and rattly. Some passages blocked off in collapsed sections. Plating shifts roughly as the vents come in, and then out. He did a very good self surgery on his chassis given how little time and tools he had at hand. Better himself than that medic.

He broadens his hearing outward, to the rest of the ship. Small groans and creaks of bulkheads, distant distant conversation, hiss of air floating through, beeps and trills of equipment.

He, for now, blends in with the rest of the Lost Light’s noisescape. And that, that, brings him calm.

He takes another sip and finds it empty. Curious of how the mind will forget what it’s doing while running on automatic. He can’t read the updated fuel levels, but that doesn’t worry him.

Calm again, he can continue onwards towards potential safety. He slips a smile, and unravels himself from his sitting position. No need to be cheerful now however, as he’s not in the clear yet. And at that, his smile fades.

The vent, the metal surround him rattles slightly, and it only increases in intensity. Oh no, they’ve turned on the vents.

The blast of air hits him and he’s thrown backwards.

Orientations. Slams against vent walls. Something shattering against his chassis.

His processor can’t handle it, and locks off his vocalizer.

Shards. Plating. Rips.Tears.

Pain. Darkness. Howl of wind. Blinding white pain. Hot. Dark.

Everything is too much. It all seems to last forever.

And ends in an instant.

Silence floods his audials.

He’s awake. He’s aware.

The full force of his injuries hit him.

It takes everything not to scream. Fire in his lines. Lubricant in his optics.

The smell of energon. Wet. Sticky. Everywhere. He can’t do this, not again.

He can.

He can feel the only thing holding his arm to shoulder disk are taunt energon lines. He looks over, a new wave of pain unfurling in his neck. Plating crushed, crumpled, ripped open.

The map. How far away is he.

Can’t comprehend the reading.

Can’t understand the glyphs popping up on H.U.D.

He’s lost.

Won’t make it this time. No one will remember him, and no one will care.

His vision wavers, and fades out.

 

 

[ _My name is Rung of Pious Pools and the Lost Light. I’m a psychiatrist, and my hobby is model ship making. I’m roughly 8 million years old, and I will survive another day.]_

 

 

His processor starts up, slow and groggy. Half finished damage reports flood his vision, and he’s just… too tired to acknowledge their existence. Clears his vision of them.

He moves to get up and is blindsided by the pain. Emergency systems are routed through and then he feels nothing. It feels like dissociation, but knows that if he pushes it everything will come flooding back again.

There’s a voice loud and angry, and he stalls. Not from in the vent, too muffled for that. He can’t understand it, but the familiarity of the grating/cursing/angry tone is.. frustrating. If only he could concentrate. Perhaps this is what woke him up?

The room below him shakes, as something is pounded into the walls. Too loud, how can that mech stand it? Every strike is a helmache.

But if he moves away to a quieter place, then he’ll make a sound, and sound means being found. He’ll need to wait until he can figure something out.

How funny of the universe to force him to do what caused him such pain in life. Remain silent or die.

The time ticks on, uncountable. The mech, whoever it is, refuses to leave whatever room is below Rung, but at least has calmed, has quieted. Has talked himself down from whatever has troubled him. That’s good of him.

He’s able to understand the tone of voice now, but has completely stopped trying to decipher the once familiar glyphs. His processor just can’t handle it.

Maybe he’ll pass into the afterspark quietly. Death can’t be that painful.

That thought hangs in his mind for a while, until he realizes that he just doesn’t care. If it is painful to cross, then so be it. He can handle pain, and he certainly can handle death. His smallest, reoccurring opponent.

Certainly Death has hardly ever had to handle academic criticism.

But what about his patients? His friends? Shipmates? The other handful of psychologists remaining? They would certainly.. feel something from his death.

Anger, sudden, bleeds through him.

What have they done lately that’s helped him? No alarms on the ship have gone out, no one has come searching for him. Three months of being gone, of not showing up to appointments, no weekly shipwide letters going out. He’s always been forgotten and he isn’t even missed. If he dies in this vent then so be it. Let his frame rot and ruin the air quality of the whole blasted ship with their negligence.

The room is too quiet now, is all his processor churns out. Wonderful. Maybe he can get moving soon. Frag pain.

A frame is now underneath him. Underneath? Oh, he’s near a vent exhaust. Oh. There’s energon pooling and dripping out of the exhaust grill. Certainly, certainly not his of course. That’d be, that’d be too much lost to be healthy.

The frame - no, the mech. The mech says… something. Something rather loud. His audials ring with incomprehension, and he can feel the vibrations under his palms. Too loud. Can’t they be quiet, that voice? Silence is the key to them not finding him. And oh, are they ever good at doing so.

The grill is gone now, and a helm has replaced it. A helm with a single light that’s suddenly fading out into darkness, the quiet, quiet darkness. He can feel himself recessing into the afterspark, and oh is it so quiet and comfortable that feeling of falling, slipping, just letting himself go…

 

 

“RUNG”

And he’s sucked back into the moment, the force of him slamming back into his frame rattles him to the core.

Everything is back, and thankfully those emergency routines are still in effect. He becomes very aware of what pain is waiting for him though if he does upset it.

“RUNG,” too loud, “HOLD ON I’LL GET YOU OUT”

Out. How? Out is moving… and moving is…

a claw on his shoulder, and

Pain! Pain burns through everything and he can’t hold back the scream.

It’s too much!

It’s too much!

Spinning, white flashes, fading dark.

Dark, dark

and fading, it’s subsiding.

Then numbness again. Everything’s quiet.

“Rung I can’t. I can’t move you and my coms aren’t connecting. I need to leave to get Ratchet, but I’ll be back for you,” the single orb of light seems to say, “Rung can you hear me?”

His name is a keyword. Sudden clarity. Must never be spoken, and he’s already said it multiple times, loudly. Coms aren’t connecting. They set up a disruptor when they’re about to make a move. How could they find him so fast? It must have been the vent, too much noise from his frame being tossed around. Came to investigate, and name confirmed suspicions.

But Whirl, he needs to say something, anything to Whirl. He lets his processor decide, and prepares. Three second countdown.

Go.

Something internal jams and shutters and the “Shhhhh,” is dragged out into a hiss of a slow vent out. His vision wavers from the effort and still mostly-deadened pain. His vocalizer is hoarse. Dry. How low on fuel is he now? He can’t tell.

He becomes very aware of his optics flickering out, and manages to shutter them on again. “You have…” a wet vent in, “to keep quiet.”

There. Success his processor tells him.

“I’m sorry,” but the mech keeps talking, “I’m sorry. I’ll be back I promise, just, please, please stay online.”

Quieter: good. No names: ...even better.

Rung manages to smile. The orb of optic disappears, and the smile fades out. His promise? Empty. The Noise? The name? Already spoken.

He won’t make it back in time before they get to him.

Again.

They’ll make sure he lives through this, and then continue on with their sick fun.

Rung sobs, and he can’t stop. The movement is painful, and his vocalizer hurts.

They’ll find him again and he can’t stop the convulsing, wet, gasps for air between cries.

 

 

[ _My name is Rung of Pious Pools and the Lost Light. I’m a psychiatrist, and my hobby is model ship making. I’m roughly 8 million years old, and I will survive another day.]_

 

 

°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l° 

Whirl explodes through his room, Ratchet and Ultra Magnus right behind him. Within a nanosecond all three take in the scene, and stall.

The vent exhaust, no, the entire ventilation system in the room has been torn apart. Splatters of energon coat almost everything. Distantly orange scrap lay discarded amongst the ruin.

The distinct marks of a frame having been dragged through a puddle of energon catches all three sets of optics.

Ultra Magnus calls for a search, Ratchet notifies the medibay, and the rest of command.

And Whirl?

Whirl falls to his knees and cries.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter hinted at what Rung was running from, and this chapter will go into the deeper, darker, details of what exactly he feared. What he knew he’d return to once dragged from that vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the variety of tags between chapters , I’ll be putting chapter specific tags in the summary of each chapter. I’ve also updated this fic’s rating, and the archive warnings.  
> Please read the tags before reading. It does... get a lot worse than what the first chapter hinted at. 
> 
> This chapter's tags are:  
> Whump, serious injuries, non-con, torture, psychological torture, beating, swearing, implied/referenced self-harm, suicide idealization, non-consensual drug use, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, forced watching of pornography, masturbation, non-consensual touching, con-consensual surgery, con-consensual oral sex, sticky sexual interfacing, force-feeding aphrodisiac drugs, electrocution, sexual violence, sexual injuries, group sex, double penetration, extreme penetration, and cum marking.

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Everything comes online at once.

Systems boot up - vicious speed.

Consciousness strikes him like a freight train. Systems prepping to take in information. Too much? Too late to abort.

Cold, hard - sitting on a medical gurney. Legs - no weight. Must be hanging off the ledge. Frame - unresponsive.

Weight on back and shoulder. Servo? Holding. Something protruding from arm - can’t see.

Mechs, many mechs - all known culprits - surround him. Special occasion? Twelve mechs a crowded room makes. Too close. Too far. Undetectable. Expressions? Mouths upturned, optics bright. Grounds for positive emotion. Excitement? No glasses to confirm suspicions.

Fields too still. Undecipherable. Need movement. Not enough to process.

The room. Refitted storage room. Entrance blocked - storage shelf perfect cover from cleaners. Walls bare. Clean. Unusual. Strange pulley system attached from floor to wall to ceiling. Highlight of the space, and incredibly new. Still no vents to be seen.

Character analysis files … updated.

Environmental analysis files … updated.

Incomplete.

Error. Systems check unable to update. Stalling …

Not enough to process. Too much processing power. Error. System? Systems flooding with undesirable information. Undecipherable. Unobtainable. Alarming - yes.

H.U.D. - glitching. Popups uncontainable. Time unwavering in it’s stillness.

Internal temperature … rising. Warning. Overheating in progress.

Decipher data again?

Facial expressions - body language - arrangement of the room - scratches on the walls - lingering battle damage of the mechs -  the pulse of his own spark and the many implications of how it is _not_ _spinning_.

Then, everything settles. Rung slumps forward exhausted, optics flickering at his own servos and thighs. Processor leveling off into baseline functioning. Feels the mech holding him pull out a needle.

“Rung, as a group we are _very_ happy to have you back,” Rung looks up to the hulking figure of Dipper, “But why did you need to leave? Why did you do that?” The mech steps right into Rung’s field, “We felt oh so alone without you…” and trails a digit across Rung’s face, down to a spot above his spark chamber, “Now look what you’ve forced us to do..”

Something is brought into his field of view and held there in Dipper’s servos. He has a feeling he should be reacting to it, but his overclocked processor isn’t finished deciphering what it could be. Some kind of simplistic device, but curved.

A… hook?

Why would he need to react to a hook? The only reference he has for hooks, are for when you want to keep something from moving, like a digifish, or a getaway vehicle.

Oh! Humans for some reason use these to hang up unready meat, though at a much smaller scale. Yes! That’s where he recognizes it from!

But, he isn’t organic meat, and certainly not- certainly not getting away. Oh dear.

The realization falls into the pit of his stomach, and he’s certain now that’s what they were waiting for.

He pushes off of the gurney, wanting to run, to hide, to find solace and quiet in the vents.

“Hold him.”

Before his pedes even reach the ground, servos are on him, bringing him back.

No, no no no no. He can’t let this happen. He can’t!

He kicks and bites and does everything a panicking processor can think of to escape. But there’s no movement, no wiggle room, and no escape under the combined effort of their grasps.

A clearing forms between the mechs limbs, and Dipper is there, smiling pleasantly. He’s still holding the hook, servos that have ordered so much pain, caressing it gently. Their optics lock, and Dipper walks a slow circle around Rung. Between limbs and frames their optics stay focussed on each other.

He knows what’s coming. Does his best to struggle.

But he can’t move, and tears threaten to fall, vents hitched and stuttering. It’s so hard to vent, so hard to think.

He can hear Dipper and Medic talking, but can’t understand the words, can’t understand a thing. The world seems to tilt, spinning. He tries to vent, tries to steady himself. Tries -

A new servo on his back, and then something wet. His efforts to calm crumble to pieces and he can’t stop his frame from shaking. Are they marking him?

Belatedly he realizes he’s feeling his actual back. They must have removed his backpack while he was passed out.

The wet goes away, and silence, true silence, falls like a blanket over the room.

He can feel Dipper move in close behind him, and the air stills as the mech leans in, lips grazing Rung’s audial receptors.

It takes so little to shred that blanket.

“Don’t worry it’ll only sting a little, _doc,_ ” he whispers, punctuating the last glyph with a curt kiss to the back of Rung’s helm as he straightens.

Nothing happens.

Nothing’s happening. Everyone’s quiet. Should he be worried? Are they doing this on purpose? Is there something wrong? His frame has always been odd maybe they don’t know what to do? Will Medic be able to fix him after this? Will this be temporary, or a permanent addition to his frame?

His spark is spinning anxiously, vents struggling.

How much longer -

He screams before even registering the pain.

_Pain._

Pain! White cold sparking pain piercing him, carving a hole in his chest. Through him.

Energon splatters everywhere pink with a screech of internals mashing together. Shredding.

His back tries to arch around the intrusion, his optics burn white bubbles, and searing energon flows.

And then it stops. It stops moving.

Errors. Main lines breached. Sensor clusters destroyed. Rung can’t feel servos on him below the waist.

Voices behind him.

It’s not in far enough.

It’s not in _far enough._

Shockwaves of pain holding a beat into curling _screams_ and energy blazed optics. Something’s hammering. He barely registers the hook sliding in farther with each hit.

A new warning appears. Any farther and the tip with breach sparkchamper. Scratching against glass.

Limbs moving beyond his control. Electricity dances along his plating.

Why can’t he pass out and make this end?

 

 

°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°

Whirl’s habsuite is silent. No pounding walls, no curses, shouts or expletives, and no tinkering at his workbench.

The mech stays hunched in a seat facing the door, optic unseeing. Ever since he saw Rung he’d sat, mind ablaze but frame motionless. He is a proud, battle hardened mech who’s seen his share of bloodshed. He’s seen more than enough bloodshed, a _lifetime's_ worth of bloodshed. Some his own, but mostly others. It used to bother him, itch at his processor and leave imprints in his optic - but he got used to it. Desensitized, then enjoying it, then desensitized again. And yet now, when he offlines his optic all he can see is Rung’s mangled frame.

He hasn’t offlined his optic for a long while now.

But the mech won’t leave him alone. He hears the labored breathing, the gurgle of energon clogging his intake as he managed to tell him to shut up.

How infuriating. But that anger holds no bearing. He thought he didn’t care about anyone aboard the Lost Light. Thought what he said to Rung about being friends that one time was just a mistake. A slip of the proverbial tongue.

But no. Of course not.

It’d been months since Whirl had seen the therapist, and Whirl (unbelievably) thought that the mech was mad at him. For something or whatever. He says a lot of stupid scap, any of which could’ve been Rung’s final straw. Thought the little mech was avoiding him, or something. His processor will tell him a lot of messed up things that hold no bearing. And so when he started to hear mechs say that they’ve seen him around, he never went looking for him. Never sought him out.

Because, well because he was afraid of what the mech would’ve told him. That he was no longer his patient, that Rung no longer wanted to see him any longer, that it was over, that Whirl was too much trouble.

What a stupid _stupid_ line of thought he had held.

Rung was injured.

Rung is being held captive.

Rung is being held against his will, potentially being tortured, and definitely in a critical condition.

He kept an ear out for any mention of Rung’s name, he really did, but when he went to the locations mechs were saying they’d seen him, he was nowhere to be found. He just wanted a glimpse, just wanted to know he was fine - that we was doing well. He wanted to see him, optics glued to a datapad as he hurried along to primus knows where. He wanted to see if he was finally getting some rest - he always looked pretty ragged when not in session.  

The ‘ _maybe I missed him’_ s started adding up, and that’s just fragging suspicious. That nerd can’t walk _that_ fast, and he had booked it over a good few times. So I actually showed up to the allotted times for my sessions, but the mech never showed up or opened up the doors. He didn’t answer coms.

That should’ve been the second Primus given clue. But I don’t know, I got tired. I got complacent or whatever some scrap. I didn’t do anything about it, or tell anyone. I mean, everyone at this point should’ve noticed something right? Maybe it was just me, or maybe everyone else was on some big Rung-centered secret. Figured out his alt or something.

And now? Now it’s all his fault that Rung’s been hurt for so long.

The room fills with a rattling sound, and it’s my claws. My goddamn claws shaking as I bring them up to my helm. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to be seen.

But my optics offline and I see him so vidly being fragging torn out of the vent. The vent being shredded just to get to him. I of all mechs deserve that. But Rung? Rung is fragging off limits! Of all mechs. Of all mechs… Rung is the last person ever to have that done to him. He’s a non-combatant, a civilian with a beautiful spark and a sharp mind! He’s off limits, don’t they know that?

Optic fluid coats my claws and I force it to see the blurry mess it’s making. Primus I’m so weak.

Rung would tell me to calm down, to stabilize my vents to normal levels.

Since when did I having trouble with that? Why does my chest hurt so much?

Rung would say it in a lot nicer way, he’d make me feel good and in control. But Rung’s not here, so it’s up to me to do my best with the paraphrasing.

Invents and outvents. Calm thoughts. I’m in my shop. Everything is good.

It takes way too long before the room is quiet again.

Ok.

Even if I was an absolute shitstorm and didn’t say anything before, I can still do so now. I can help.

Just gotta think. First stop. I stand, do a good shake of the frame and start pacing.

The mechs who claimed to have seen him, when Rung’s obviously not been around, that’s a start. Uh, just gotta remember names and descriptors. I set a program to do just that, and focus the rest of my processing power to thinking of anything else suspicious.  

Nothing else suspicious comes up as the program finishes it’s run. Eight mechs. That’s an infuriatingly high number. I want to destroy them, interrogate them, rip their goddamn arms off to get the truth out and Rung back, but no. That’s the dumb way to do things.

The smart way would be to report his findings to Ultra Magnus and help with the offical rule-booky way of doing things. If I do anything stupid, the perps could get frisky and… destroy their captor.

I open chat with Big M, <Got something for you.> I grab any old datapad, wipe the contents, and dump the list of names on it. <Something of worth.>

And fucking book it to Ultra Magnus’s office.

 

…

 

The problem will office doors is that you gotta request to get in. There’s no bloody open button, and so you need to stand there pressing that ‘request’ button every nanosecond. And that door took it’s fragging goddamn time.

Don’t shoulder my way in. Let the door do it’s thing. Better not get kicked out before I can hand out designations.

Ultra Magnus, as usual, sits behind his desk looking a bit frazzled with that leveled face of his, typically, through a stack of paperwork. Half of it probably Rodimus’. Ship gosip and all. Probably not the best to follow. But whatever, not important.

Whirl slams down his datapad on that big fragging desk of Ultra Magnus’. Now _that’s_ important. “This is important.” Nailed it.

Big M’s expression didn’t change a smidge as his gaze slid from me to the not-at-all-slam-damaged datapad, and back to me again. His frown deepens. “So your message said, Whirl.” Not the worst tone. He’s trying to be patient. “Would you care to elaborate,” Oh I can definitely do that, “at all-”

“Yup, yeah, so can do. I got names for mech’s I believe are tied to Rung’s disappearance.” Gotta sucker up. “Sir.” His optics perk up like a cop who just got new evidence for a dead case. Haha, got him. _Frag_ , nothing else must have come up on the security cams.

Ultra Magnus picks up the datapad, obviously restraining himself - he’d want to snatch it up and eat the names if he could, and reads through it. “What about them garners your suspicion?”

“Not what about them, but what they’ve said. Over the past couple months I’ve overheard these particular mechs say that they’ve seen or been around Rung. They’ve tried to cover themselves up by spreading around the info, but if you ask mechs where they heard about Rung from it always leads back to one or more of these eight. I’ve noticed that they usually start these rumors whenever someone asks or get curious about Rung’s location, or why they haven’t seen him in a while. It doesn’t happen often ‘cause the mech ain’t very memorable, but they seem to hang out at Swerve’s for this reason.”

“Have you investigated any of these Rung sightings?”

“Yes… sir. None have held any substance.”

“Give me a detailed report on where these Rung sightings have been leading, and I’ll look into these mechs. Thank you Whirl… this is the first lead so far. I was getting worried.”

“Well now, that’s disappointing, but on a different tick of the clock, now that you’ve gotten all gooshy and mushy, I just wanna say that he’s told me a few times I should try verbalizing my emotions or _what ever_ , so here’s a little something out loud for ya. I’m angry, and I’m all bundles of nervous for Rung. No mech.. He doesn’t deserve what happened in and after that vent, and I don’t know if he’s getting worse as we speak, but I know that I want to find him and I want to find him _fast_. If you’ll have me, I want to help.” Now was that so hard? Yes it was. Fragging deserve a medal. Emotional leakage of the year right there.

“I…” and that pause indicates worlds of uncomfortableness. Cool. I feel that. “I understand, I do. I’m doing the best I can to help Rung, and these names will significantly help me, but I’m sure you know that this is a waiting game. I don’t want to have it, but if the mech’s involved are tipped off, they could panic and murder him, or move to a string of new locations - and we’ll never find him.” Wow what a downer. Total sapper of my energy right there. “I will keep you updated on any new developments when I can, and let you know if there’s anything you can do to help. For now, keep alert for more leads. Do not let yourself be known during the rest of this investigation. It’s delicate, and any mech who’s warry will know you have a history with Rung, and an invested interest in his safety.”

“Yeah ok I get it…” Fraggit all to the pit, there’s nothing I can do for him right now. I should’ve acted sooner, I should’ve done something - “How long you thinking?”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he shuts his optics. “As long as it takes,” he opens them again, looking at me. “I’m hoping for something within the next couple of days, but that might be a very optimistic estimate. We don’t know how often these mech’s move, switch out, or anything about their operation. It’s impossible to say right now.”

“Ok cool.” I shuffle pedes, thinking that I just want to be in my hab right now, this is so disheartening. Ultra Magnus has already gone back to his paperwork. What a bastard - this investigation should be his top priority. “I’m gunna head out, ok?”

“Thank you.” I’m already backstepping my way out as he looks back at me, right through me. “Whirl, we’ll find him.”

“Yeah, well, unless they jetisin him out the airlock.” I force out laughter as my tanks ache at the thought. I slap open the door, anger suddenly swelling. I force my optic into a thin line. “But for real, we don’t know if we’ll find him alive or greyed. Keep that in mind as you take your time.”

That shocked face was the last thing I got as I turned and walked out, stupidly slow door doing a fine job of closing behind me.

 

 

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Rung’s been awake for a lot longer than what’s preferable. Medic hasn’t treated his injuries for a few days now, but then again nothing life threatening has happened yet. Only when the injury is life threatening will he take a look at it. Or, or when he’s gotten bored enough to indulge in this particular medical hobby of his.

But that doesn’t stop his frame from aching. It’s been like that for a while now, and his chest feels absolutely horrid. Might be the hook, but he doesn’t open his optics or feel for it, to be sure. He doesn’t want to move, or show off his consciousness. They rarely touch me when I can’t react to it. No, it’s not me - it’s Rung. They don’t like touching him when he can’t give the reaction they’re looking for.

All he can hear is his and Medic’s vents, the ship’s engines, and something dripping nearby. The chains keeping him hanging don’t even rattle. Everything is as quiet as it can be.

Footsteps, _loud_ , around the shelving corner announces a new, scheduled mech.

Medic perks up behind him, and Rung’s frame tenses on instinct. If the mech holds Medic’s interest then Rung must be in for agony.

The mech stomps up to him, and grabs Rung’s chin, tilting it up. Rung opens his optics in panic and bares witness to a full view of optics. He knows these, has seen that look a thousand times before to know what it means. Hatred, anger, and a means to inflict something terrible onto you.

Crunch always comes in when he needs something to destroy.

“Fucking fraggers,” Crunch says, taking a rag from his subspace. He wipes around Rung’s mouth and intake - there must still be evidence of last session’s, ah, transfluid. Is this a moment of tenderness, of caring? Certainly, maybe. At least in comparison to his previous actions.

“I’m not particularly happy Rung. I haven’t had time to chat with you since you _joined_ us again. Others might say they’re happy to have you back, but me? Oh I’m furious you thought you could get away from us. From _us_.” His harsh words land softly. The uncharacteristically gentle voice and actions, driving Rung’s spark through the roof.

Crunch finishes, throwing the rag off to the side.

His attention is back to Rung’s mouth however, and the mech runs a thumb along the new tears that have started to form. “I had to find other more, creative ways to dump charge,” he says, and Rung shivers at the thought. Abuse is abuse, and there will always be evidence of it.

“But now that you’re back,” he says, digging the tip of the digit into a larger tear and the sensation burns, “I can finally get some release, good release, not fragging fight simulators release.”

Rung gives him no reaction.

Crunch scoffs, and lets Rung’s helm go with a pat on the cheek. Potential aggression dodged. Maybe.

“Those hardly count after all the fighting us _real_ mechs have done during the war.” Crunch pulls on the chain above Rung, and he gasps as the hook jostles heat within, not noticing as his dangling form is lowered until his pedes reach the ground.

He wavers, legs giving out and he collapses into Crunch and the mech scoffs.

“But you’re not a real mech are you,” he says, volume rising as he leans down into Rung’s helm, “you haven’t fought, you haven’t _hurt_ over this war have you, not like the rest of us.” It’s not true, that’s not true. But Crunch, Crunch never listens. He wants a frame to listen - to beat on, not to talk. And this helm is so fuzzy from the sickly heat in his chest, coherent conversation wouldn’t even be possible.

“Now, good thing you and me’ve got this great relationship,” he says, lifting Rung up by the chain and keeping him there, “I teach you everything you were supposed to learn while you were off writing or whatever, and _I_ get to beat the absolute scap out of you. A real win win here.”

Rung’s legs adjust to the new weight enough to hold their own, and Crunch lets go of the chain, disconnecting it from the hook. The weight now odd.

His servo drops to Rung’s cheek, and squeezes and tugs Rung towards him, smiling. “You should be grateful for this opportunity.” Grateful?

He lets go, and softly pats the spot.

“Sucks that I need to watch out for that hook of yours huh? Have to put some thought into this, and I _like_ that,” he says, taking a step back. Optics never leaving Rung’s.

He just needs to survive this. Just survive. Make it through the session and pray for a fast recovery.

Crunch throws a punch. Rung lifts his arms too late to defend his helm. It doesn’t connect.

The mech laughs, hollow, “too bad you learned not to fight me eh? I miss those times now actually, you used to try _so_ hard but you were _so pathetic_. Can’t even defend yourself.” Pathetic… no. No thinking, just survive.

Crunch lunges forward a blur. Jab connects below the hook. “You’ll be pleased to know-” Rung’s knocked backwards, gasping at the sudden ventilation failure. “-if nobody’s told you yet, that we haven’t formulated a plan to replace you.”

Rung retains footing.

“Thought about it definitely. With your absence it was _so_ tempting to get ahold of someone like Swerve, Rewind, Tailgate,” he pauses, pacing. “But really now, they all have their uses don’t they. But you?” his voice drops, “Your use is right here.”

Fist connects with helm. Audial ringing. Floor getting closer.

Grip on the back of helm. Being pulled up. Thrown. Ceiling, floor, wall.

Hard impact.

Optics reset. Left audial non-functioning. Disorrented. Falling backwards.

Frame slammed back into wall. Arm in grip, ripped backwards into a lock. Joint capacity reached. Mouth next to audial.

“I got served a ‘last of my squad bullshit’ by those fraggers in high command. And you know who’s apart of that? Who did that to my squad? Megatron! Here!” Slight release. “On this _ship!”_ Wrenched backwards, _wrong way_. Rung screams, the joint broken. It sounds off.

A blur. No longer facing wall, arm released. “I’m not even allowed to take a shot at him!” A pede to the back propelling him forward. “Not allowed to get away from the war when the war-” can’t think, optics leaking, vents strained, “-the _whole war_ is right here following me like a Primus driven rust infection!”

Rung struggles to stand, arm limp at his side. Just survive this.

Crunch stands across the room from him, expression warped with emotion. “And you know who put him here? Optimus goddamn Prime! Of all mechs! Of all mechs to follow, to lead, he dumps the enemy onto this _blasted_ ship and out of sight!”

Unable to decipher emotional reading. It’s so high - glyphs dripping in it. Rung wants to approach him, comfort him, let him talk it out.

“Never knew the mech I fought for all my life was such a coward.” Optic fluid? The mech turns his helm away, and Rung wobbles on his pedes uncertain what to do.

He turns back to Rung, optics clear, and dentae bared.

With a roar Crunch lunges at him. Blur. Rung’s legs swept from under him. Ceiling. Falling backwards.

Fist slams into abdomen. Slams into floor. Cracking.

Crunch pulls his fist out, _out._ Entrails, energon, _struts_ and flooring fall back onto him.

He’s choking on his own energon. Deny the screams. Warnings. Errors.

Nothing but errors.

Energon. Not enough.

Medic’s at his side.

Arm glitches. Attempt to cover up the massive hole: failure.

Failure.

Crunch. Fist, flexing. A thank you. _Thank you. Thank you for the session?_

New pain. New errors. Medic hands deep, _too deep_ . Too deep in the wound. _The hole._

Stream of pleas. Begs. Audible? Unknown. Is it even possible to survive this.

New pain. New pain.

Can’t stop screaming. Can’t stop sobbing. _Agony._

Will he really be missed at all if he died?

  


°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°

It’s been eight days. Eight full days since, well, I don’t want to think of it. But it’s been eight days since that. I want to rip something apart. I want to see those named mechs bleed. I want to tear my own habsuite apart in their place. But no. No, I have to just sit still and wait. I’ll be no help in the brig, and no help wasted at Swerve’s, and no help anywhere doing anything other than being here.

I’ve waited in docking bays, I’ve waited in trenches and sewers, and all sorts of terrible places to be - all just waiting for orders to move out. For orders to strike. And everytime you know where the bastards are, everytime you know what their smug fragging faces look like and you’re not allowed to do anything about it - is it’s own special brand of torture.

You can’t plan for anything that’ll take more than 10 minutes at a time, max, and you can’t get overcharged, and your recharge will be shit and fleeting and definitely unrestful, your mind a degrading mess of watching the time tick down. Primus driven clocks.

And when I do leave my hab to get to that nearest primus fragging stupid energon dispensary, no mech wants to go near me, and rightfully so. Frag company. Don’t need that slag. I hold my field in tight enough so that no one will feel a thing, but they sure can see a giant tangled _mess_ of twitchy trigger claws when they see one. No field needed to get mechs to frag the fuck off.

Arm full of cubes acquired, it’s a relief to get back in my hab and let that field of _rage/frustration/fear_ loose.

But I can’t even make it to the slab before it churns into something else. Why hasn’t Ultra Magnus called yet? Messaged. Sent a report. Anything.

H.U.D. gives a warning, and I sit down to relieve my legs. Sit down right on the floor like the goddamn mess I am. Just dropping cubes everywhere.

Frag it all. Magnus shouldn’t be leaving me alone with my way _way_ too creative thoughts. I catch a glimpse of the hastily repaired ceiling. Or memories.

Slag, everything is bad and, everything also sucks. I want to wreck something, and thighs are the first thing I see. I squint at them, and frag am I ever not going down that path again.

I set a claw down on the floor, and drag it along. Gouges and screeches is all that it is. Wish it’s those bastards, the fraggers.

Self destructive tendencies fragging slag. Usually a claw embedded deep in that damn floor would do something positive for me, but frag my luck. Today it does nothing for the mood. Ah, frag it all.

I lean back and lay on the floor, letting out a long exvent. The ceiling is right there in plain view now. But nope, the vent doesn’t exist. It ain’t up there, in clear view. Nope.

I shut my optic off. It deserves a rest. After all this? Mech do I ever deserve rest… and the free reign to fuck up those monster of mechs.

A ping. Requesting call.

I bolt upright, when did I fall into recharge, and connect.

<Whirl, it’s been four days now->

<Yeah, I fragging know.> I snip, <What’s happened.>

The line goes silent, probably in indignation. Then a sigh.

<The names you’ve given us.. they’ve been sitting idly. We’ve reviewed security footage, and they all did go to the same area, off cameras, six days ago, but none have gone back yet. We’ve looked into their history, and nothing out of the ordinary there. No reports about any irregularities of character. We also have been able to tell that they have been watching a large number of data heavy net streams. But, we’re ethnically and technologically unable to tap into them.>

<So you’re telling me they don’t even need to be in the same _room_ as Rung to know how he is? They might never move then. But wait wait wait if they went into an area of no cameras can’t we just.. go there and take a look around? >

<It is harder than just ‘taking a look around.’ That area is larger than acceptable for an under-the-radar search. Acceptable when it was just a lower deck maintenance block, but now...>

<Ok..> I say, absolutely ready and _primed_ to search the entire lower maintenance deck. Levels. Whatever.

<You will _not_ search for him. >

<What the frag? What am I - what are we supposed to do then?>

< _You_ are not apart of _we_ , and do not have a say in this. A command meeting is happening momentarily - _we_ will decide what happens next. > Whoa whoa whoa where did this histility come from?

<Do I get an ETA on the verdict?>

<No more than an hour.>

<Understood. Whirl out.>

I disconnect with a furious click. How in the world I managed to hold myself together through that blatant disrespect. Holy fragging slag. Why even _bother_ calling then!

I have no idea what the doc is facing, _he_ has no idea what the doc is facing. Nobody working on this primus bleeding case knows what the doc is facing!

A screech emits from my vocoder and I shut that shit down.

What a field day for my horrid thoughts. A life of being a stupid gun toting idiot sure does give a lot of suggestions on what could definitely be happening to that mech. Terrible.

Easiest way to shut ‘em up would be to drown them out at Swerve’s - nothing nicer than to drink oneself into the pit. Completely numb the frame and fuzzy out the processor.

But no. I can’t. I’m on standby. I wouldn’t be able to lift a primus ridden claw to help myself, not to mention anyone else in that state. I want anything to help Rung.

But standby it is! Whatever! Waiting for the fragging meeting to be over. Fuck bureaucracy honestly. Slagging waiting for someone else to make the decisions, when I know what they’re going to do. They won’t tell me, of course with Magnus like that I won’t get told slag. ‘Just stay on standby so I can call on your guns when we need you to violently destroy the perps.’

Sure. Whatever. They’re gunna do what they’re gunna do, and I’m not gunna fight them on it. No point getting sent to the brig now when I’m _so_ close to getting Rung back safe. And if it weren’t for my guns I bet Magnus would be absolutely itching to drop me in that joint.

Rung, _primus_ why do I need to crave a mech’s company now, when I actively avoided it before all this?

My mind drifts to what I can remember of the small mech. Orange, that’s for sure. Smart, kind, _soft_ , with that little smile and those ridiculous glasses and eyebrows. His spark is so bright, and his field so calm. I remember fighting against the effects of that field for so long. And yet it’s all I want to feel again.

And when he takes those glasses off? When he’s stressed, or wants to accentuate a point… primus send me to the pit right now that mech looked so kind. So kind, and so, _so_.. tired. Worry lines forming heavily around those sweet optics, discoloration around the edges. But he keeps giving kindness to everyone.

And I? I, can’t accept kindness. I couldn’t accept the therapy sessions, or the mech’s off-the-clock help, not after everything I’ve been through.

I do miss his offers to help, and his offers for company. Maybe the doc was asking more for himself on that last point. No mech really ever hangs out with him. He.. must’ve been real lonely. Or maybe I’m just making something into what it isn’t.

But Rung, Rung’s being put through a lot worse right now. And me? I’m doing absolutely _nothing_ for him. I didn’t do anything then, and I’m not doing anything _now_.

I want to. I want to rip, and destroy, and put these functionalist mandated claws to good use. I’ll show everyone not to mess with innocents. I’ll show them. I’ll rip out their bleeding, pulsating, fading sparks!

Oh slag. I’m standing, weapon systems online and primed. I shut them down, and sit again with a huff.

Rung’s spark case could probably be pierced real easily with how much spark-light gets through it. Though guess he does have a very bright spark to begin with, seeing how that dang sparkeater went right for ‘em. Huh. Command could probably pick out Rung’s spark from the rest of the crew with the ship’s internal sensors. I’ll have to bring that up with Magnus when he calls back.

I guess while I wait, I should practice that deep breathing slag Rung showed me. I need to stay on Magnus’ good side if I want to stay informed, and stay on the team saves him. Stay calm, be polite, and wait for that call.

 

…

 

And the enforcer does. 130 primus-unforgiven earth minutes later. I need to be patient, but holy frag so much for that ‘no more than an hour’ slag.

<A decision has been made, Whirl. It’s been decided that that decision can’t be shared to you. We can’t risk our plans getting out, and we certainly can’t risk you deciding to go solo.> So they _are_ doing nothing, fragging spawn of glitches!  <I am... concerned for Rodimus - he’s not taking it lightly that a group like this has festered under his captaincy.> He should be. Frag him. He’ll get over it, but if Rung survives he’ll have to deal with the consequences for forever!

Ok, no. Take a vent. I need to concentrate. Be nice. I do _not_ want to be pissing off the only mech feeding me information.

<Whirl?>

<Yes, sir. Just.. absorbing the information. Ok. So not allowed to know anything. Is there anything you need me to do, right now? Oh slag better yet I have an idea. Rung’s spark is so bright right? Has anyone tried looking for his spark signature? Or at least the brightest blip on the radar?>

<Good suggestion, but we have already tried. It isn’t showing up, which means one of two things: he’s dead, which wouldn’t make sense considering why their activities would continue in the same pattern; or they’re aware of what gives Rung away and have countered it.> Frag it! Slag! Fragging glitches! Fragging rust infected afthats!

Slag. Cooling down. Breathing. Staying calm.

<As for you, there’s nothing we want you doing right now. Stay on alert and stay on standby.>

<Slag Magnus if you don’t want me doing anything, then why’d you even call me back?>

<Because I don’t want you doing anything… regrettably stupid. I’m maintaining standard social communication protocols.> Yeah right. <And because… I have a strut deep feeling we’ll end up needing your firepower. Understood?>

<Understood, sir. Whirl out.>

Magnus cuts the line first, leaving me alone feeling strutless. Feeling almost hopeless.

There has to be something I can do other then just sit around and wait. And, if he wants me weapons ready, then fine.

I’ll _be_ weapons ready.

 

 

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

It doesn’t surprise him with how easy it’s been to slip into that familiar persona, for his mind to start breaking down again. What has it been? A week at least, maybe. It’s so hard to tell with his chronometer destroyed and the variety in the schedule. But surely it’s taken less to force quiet submission into him after being captured again. Pedes barely touching the ground as he lets other mechs vent their frustrations into him. He could struggle, surely. That’s something he could do.

But the energy isn’t there. The hope isn’t there. I’m not myself. Dissociation so deeply embedded in my processor that I’m not me. I’m him - Rung. I’m not that broken _thing_ hung by a hook in a festering wound, in a room that’s again been cleaned of spilt energon. Rung is.

But even Rung… Rung lets these mechs do this to him, for the sake of their ‘sanity,’ but he’s not getting paid for this. He hasn’t submitted an invoice for payment, hasn’t enjoyed what he’s done, hasn’t garnered any satisfaction from a job well done, and certainly hasn’t been willing… or given consent to anything subjected to him.

But he’s just, allowing it to happen now, no struggle given. But they smile less now, laugh less too. He used to struggle, but the laughter then was almost as painful as the wounds inflicted.

Still, he doesn’t say a glyph, doesn’t spill a single secret. He never has, and never will. He’s built in enough safeguards to protect his patients, even a mnemosurgeon would be ineffective.

Not that it matters now. There’s no new plan for escape. No one is looking for Rung, not now, not ever.

He did see Whirl, and Whirl certainly had the misfortune of seeing him in that state, but if Whirl had gone for help… Rung sighs, swaying slightly. If Whirl had gone for help, then maybe his gun toting, patient-friend, would have broken through the door by now. Or given some kind of sign. Anything.

Maybe they killed him, Rung thinks, bringing a servo up to the hook. It’s warm to the touch, and not by body heat. Infection won’t kill him by the time his captors arrive again for another session. He lets his arm hang again. No, no Rung severely doubts anyone’s capability to take down Whirl without the entire ship hearing the fight, even against a group such as this one.

No certainly Whirl is out there, but whatever he might be doing now, it probably isn’t for Rung’s sake. He only hopes that Whirl is treating himself well. It must have been hard to see Rung’s frame in that condition. And what they did to his habsuite, oh dear, that’s not something to easily come away from. I hope the Lost Light’s cleanup crew were responsive.

Rung had message them back and forth, across several weeks, to clean and repair the damages to his office after Swerve kindly missed his shot. After completing physiotherapy, Rung returned to it untouched, except for the new window, and cleaned it up himself.

Regardless, he hopes Whirl well, even if Rung is here.

Content with that conclusion, Rung’s thoughts wander to other things. He looks down, hoping to see past his hook, but alas, nothing but hook.

There’s no way Medic will be able to keep him alive this way forever. The mech has only been making sure he’s functional for the next day of activities. Long-term complications will come for Rung eventually. If that eventually is today, tomorrow, or the next, he’ll just have to face that particular agony it when it comes.

Not like he has a choice in the matter, when he’s like this, when he has this giant hook of his impaling him. With an intake so ragged it hurts to vent, with a body so used up it can hardly stand on its own.

That’s all he’s ever been good for: being used by someone else.

The Functionalists used him, then he lent himself out to his patients to better their mental health, then for the military to evaluate candidates for the Wreckers. Patients, research, paperwork, consultation, patients, and now here he is again. Used against his will in a show of power.

It really is fine, he supposes. He would hate and fight to the strut if this was done to someone else, but really now, it’s just him. Rung of Pious Pools (and the Lost Light), psychiatrist, hobbyist model ship maker, 8 million years old, and seemingly unkillable. No one need worry about the mech they all forget.

And he doesn’t feel much of it anymore. Trauma’s coping mechanisms are great for in the moment events. He knows he’ll have to detangle every memory his processor has relieved him of, every event he’s dissociated through, every broken part physiotherapy will be needed for. And he dreads the day he’s safe enough to do so.

For now? Now his frame is just someone else’s rubble. A distant someone that he visits every once as a while.

Now is one of those visitation periods. The quiet brings him in like a beacon.

It won’t be for very long now though - they do keep a rather tight schedule. But for now...

Rest, reflection, and _quiet._

 

…

 

But that isn’t to last. It never is.

Four very familiar mechs, conversationally make their way through the hidden shelving entranceway. Dipper, Dent, Slip, and Crunch respectively.

They appear to be in good spirits, but he can’t be sure. His glasses to help decipher the social cues are long gone, and the energy to do it himself just isn’t there. Not that it matters anyway, good spirits doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to how they’ll treat him.

Dipper heads past him, as the other three crowd around him.

Dent and Slip’s servos find sensitive seams, and begin to stroke and pluck. He tries his best to stay still under this assault.

The seams around his hips, groping the inside of his thighs.

A thumb against his lips, inside his mouth, and then a servo sliding to the back of his neck, following the cables lower and lower until it rests at shoulder level. Until it’s toying with the flap mod.

Panic. He leans away from Dent, straining neck sideways away from those wandering digits.

His optics meet Slip’s - optics intense, smile tight. He can hear Dipper talk to Medic, but can’t make out the words over the two mechs’ vents pouring onto him.

He looks away for any kind of distraction, and in the gaps between mechs, he can can see Crunch as he stands back, clenching and unclenching his fists. He’s a mech for violence. What could interest him in this?

But his thoughts are dragged away by a finger digging upwards in that intake flap, and his optics shutter closed - the world fading away.

A familiar sound. Fear. Adrenaline.

White electric pain _burns_ through his lines, and a scream tears him apart. Optics wide, unseeing. Frame still.

Then nothing. He slumps forward. Aftershocks jolt through his limbs, frame stinging and sore.

A mouth against his, pushing his helm up. Glossia wandering.

He sees again. Dipper’s optics too close to his. Blue and full of some kind of cruelty. Fear sparks in the pit of his stomach.

The mech pulls away, lips still close enough to feel them twitch into a smile. “Consider that a taste of what’s to come. If Crunch thinks you’re not watching, you’ll get a shock.” Thinks, not sees. Oh dear. “Be a good mech will you? The battery only lasts so long, and I’d hate to have you fetch us another.”

His spark hurts. Anxiety ripping through his lines like electricity, Is this a set up for failure? Is he resigned to pain today? He watches the prod being passed to Crunch, and follows it as the violent mech saunters over to Rung’s side.

His frame trembles. What is he supposed to be watching?

A screen on wheels is moved into his line of sight. His vents hitch, spark churning madly. Oh dear, oh dear oh dear. Is this because he’s been too quiet as of late? Too unresponsive? What punishment could this be for _?_ What did Rung _do?_

Dipper leans himself against the screen, watching Rung intently. He presses a button under it, and it bursts to light - pornographics sound erupting into the room.

Rung gasps, spark spins impossibly faster as he sees himself being fragged by two mechs, his frame squished between the two, both spikes in the same valve. The sounds are horrific. Wet. The mechs’ moans barely audible. The Rung of the past is not moaning. The Rung of the past is not enjoying himself at all. There is no hook. This happened months ago.

He can’t, he can’t remember this happening, but knows there must be more. “How many did you film…” is all he can whisper, and immediately regrets speaking - hoping no one else heard. The hook itches.  

“Oh little mech,” comes a voice next to his audial, “we filmed them _all_.”

Rung’s optics widen, turning instinctively to look at the speaker in disbelief. In shock. In _horror_. In -

Familiar sound. Thud against plating.

“We asked for one thing.”

Everything goes white.

Rung spasms in pain, screams, electricity wreaking havoc on his frame.

It ends, and he falls limp, head bowing, breathing laboured.

A servo forces him to look back up. “Please, watch,” whispers Dipper into his audial, his helm rests on Rung’s shoulder, frame flush to his back, “enjoy yourself.”

A new clip is playing, and he feels weak. How long will they have him watch this? How long can he truly last? If, if he has them electrocute him into statis, there’s no guarantee they won’t continue where they’ve left off when he awakens again.

He wants to look around. To decipher the mechs facial features around him, to squirm away from the mech behind him, rubbing cruel circles into Rung’s thighs.

He can’t look around, but maybe he can just tune out everything else. Make this easier to deal with later. His processor has already forced him to forget these traumatic things. _Please_ , I don’t want to remember them now. Not now, not ever.   

He shuts his mind to the world. Let it exist without him. Let the mechs around him have their way. Do whatever. It doesn’t matter. Rung isn’t here right now.

“Ok Rung, pop quiz for you,” Dipper calls into his audial, and the illusion shatters. “How many toys were up your valve in that last one?” The mech pats his valve cover, though it isn’t his valve he needs to remind himself. His was removed thousands of years ago. The screen has paused. Everyone is looking at him. Oh dear. Panic blooms again.

“How did it feel, Rung? Do you remember?”

How can he answer? No he doesn’t remember a thing. No, he wasn’t paying attention. Oh dear, he’s shaking, misconfigured plating rattling loudly in the silent room. “I..I um…” Oh dear, he can’t even give a numbered guess. He should’ve paid attention, should’ve listened. Adrenaline pumps through his system, and he can feel the shaking opening up new welds. Rung, the poor mech, he’s terrified. Rightfully so.

“Oh Rung, you didn’t think you could get off that easy did you? You need to pay attention sweetspark.”

Rung nods feverishly, disbelief in the non-punishment, and keeps his optics focused as the screen starts up again. A mech is viciously fragging his mouth, Past Rung forced to bend his knees slightly, a hand behind his head keeping him steady. He’s choking, audibly, but the other mech doesn’t seem to mind.

Another clip fades in, and tears form in his optics. Past Rung is being slammed into a wall, the mech’s spike rapidly pounding into the fake valve. Past Rung isn’t conscious. This does not stop the mech forcing Rung’s farther up the wall to get a better position, large servo around Past Rung’s intake. At least there’s no hook in the way. If only the mech had killed him then.

It’s only a few minutes before it’s over, and another takes its place.

“Wondering why they’re so short?”

A long pause envelopes the room, until Rung realizes he needs to nod. He feels Dipper smile.

“Well, Rung, to be honest…” Dipper fiddles with the hook, smearing fluid, and a jolt of pain follows, “there’s so much material available to choose from, so we just edited together our favourite parts.”

“Loved the collaboration. Took so long though.”

“But we don’t want to hog all this good self-servicing material.” Rung feels sick thinking someone would find pleasure in these clips. “So we were thinking about sharing them with the rest of the ship.

“What are your thoughts on this Rung?” Dipper says, patting Rung’s cheek.

Rung’s thoughts? His thoughts? Asked for, deliberately? A spark of joy strikes him, just as the heavy realization of what’s being asked of him hits home. Sharing his rape with the whole crew, as self-servicing material. Would they use it? Would the crew think he was enjoying himself? Would his friends think that? No, he doesn’t have any friends. They wouldn’t think of anything. He can’t think of anything, tears flowing freely now.

His thoughts are static. A string of _pleas_ and _no_ -s buzz through his mind, never finding voice. He closes his optics, wanting the world to disappear, wanting himself to disappear, wanting the death that’s escaped him so many times already.

Familiar sound. Thud against plating. Panic. Frame seizing up, he finds his voice in a whisper.

“No. No, please don’t.” Not again, _please_ . _Please_ have some kind of mercy, any kind of mercy. _Please_ just rip his spark from its housing, destroy the clips, destroy the memories, destroy him and everything he owns. Let him disappear from the world like he always has, _please._

He wants to vocalize this, wants to shout his thoughts to the unforgiving world, but every part of his being screams no, be quiet.

No shock comes.

“ _Please don’t_ ,” Crunch says in what he can only assume is a mocking tone, “please don’t what. Zap me again with what you deserve, or _please don’t_ share our collection of delicious porn with the rest of the crew? Which is it.” He growls the last part, jamming the prod into Rung’s side.

He freezes, gulping for air, optics locked on the screen. It shows him, kneeling in another mech’s much larger lap, being fingered in preparation for his spike. A gag keeps Past Rung’s mouth shut, but doesn’t stop him from trying to scramble away.

He resets his vocalizer.

“P-please, don’t share them with the crew.”

A deep chuckling comes from Crunch, “Still leaves me wide open with the zapping.” Rung can feel the prod dig deeper into his side, and the growing fear settles itself in beside acceptance.

“No. Not yet, Crunch. And why not, care to elaborate Rung? I’ve heard you were quite good at defending arguments.”

Is this because Rung’s been so quiet lately? Force him to talk, to beg, all because he doesn’t give proper reactions anymore? The next clip rolls in.

“I,” his frame winces, almost shutting his optics, as he sees Past Rung forced into something horrible. His vocoder restarts. “They will recognize your frames. These are not willing acts I’ve done - they will see it as it is:” not wanting to aggravate their feelings he whispers, “rape,” and takes a shuddering invent, “and report it. You’ll be found out.” It’s the first and only argument he can think of.

His optics can’t unsee the horrifics of the situation unfolding on-screen. He couldn’t see it then, but he remembers the sensations well enough. A spike fragging his back-of-the-neck intake flap through his mouth and into another mech’s valve. Past Rung’s fake valve is being fragged by a terrible pace.

He has to fight against activating purge protocols.

Laughter cuts through the choking and wet clanks. Rung’s vents hitch, instinctively squeezing his optics shut - prepared for a shock, for a beating, for anything. Maybe he shouldn’t have insinuated that he didn’t enjoy their company. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, should’ve just... He’s at a loss on what he could’ve done, but surely he should’ve done it. _Please_ let the punishment be brief.

Dipper grinds his burning hips into Rung’s aft, elbows braced on either side of the hook, servos forcing his optics wide. “Oh Rung, but we love you _so much_. That’s hardly considered rape is it? I’m sure even Ultra Magnus would have some for a quiet day. Oh, but if your biggest worry -”

“If they ever realize you’re gone.”

“They don’t love you like we do.”   
Voices all too close.

“- If your biggest worry is that you don’t _look_ like you’re consenting, then we have some that would fit the bill. Remember that week?”

The screen flickers, for a moment, for two, and then bursts to life once more. He sees him, Past Rung feverishly riding a mech’s spike. He wants to shut his optics, but Dipper’s digits force them still. His grip too strong to move his helm away.

Then him being passed between mechs like a toy.

_Him_ having his, no not his, valve stuffed full of vibrating spikes.

_Him_ begging and being fed more aphrodisiacs. He remembers the sickly bitter taste that he, at the time loved.

_Him_ swallowing a spike, intake ripping as he feverishly, _desperately_ wanting more down his intake. The heavy, and numerous, aphrodisiac _treats_ dulling the pain and skyrocketing his charge into a lustful heat. A heat he remembers not being able to dispel with any of these illicit acts. The fake valve barely allowing for an overload of his own.

Rung is quiet as each clip plays through. Doesn’t make a sound, keeps his optics on the screen as requested, remembering each enough to pass any trivial questions they could throw at him.

Dipper’s digits eventually fall away and proceed to prod him elsewhere.

He remembers each, vaguely - like a harsh processor fog protecting him from the reality of the memory. He doesn’t remember much, and watching them forces him farther away from mech, the thing on the screen. It’s not even someone else. Just a thing painted orange.

But what memories do burst to the surface at the start of each clip makes his insides churn. They’re not his memories, but the orange thing’s. And they’re horrible. What a horrible mech. It wanted everything they could give it. Wanting their spikes, their touch, to please them, and also hunt its own pleasure - which they graciously, _viciously_ obliged. Worse of all, was it craving the attention, the spotlight. After a while it’s body no longer hurt, and everything felt _good_ in its drugged out haze.

The clips keep playing, and as the time passes, the mech’s near him become a furnace of heat.

Rung casts a numb glance at the nearest, Crunch, only to confirm their built charge. Spike out, stroking. Is everyone here under the same affliction? No, this wouldn’t be considered an affliction for them. He doesn’t risk a further glance around to confirm. Can’t hear anything over the orange thing’s throes of pleasure.

Rung feels he should be more horrified, more fearful, more alert maybe. But it’s all numb. Distant. Oh dear.

He feels the mech behind him shift about, and lets it happen like he always does. His existence is for other mech’s use.

A spike slides in between his legs, and reality dulls and fades around him further, churning everything into nothing. Maybe, if he lets it, he’ll just stop existing altogether.  

 

…

 

It takes the sudden splatter of transfluid upon Rung’s plating for reality to release him to the world.

The mechs are crowded around him, and he can’t see the screen anymore, but can still hear his own moans and slick sounds of interfacing.

Dent and Slip are in front of him, aggressively stroking themselves.

Dipper’s spike ruts itself between his legs, up against Rung’s modesty panel. The sound of the mech’s frame thrusting into his own, his grunting into Rung’s audial - all mix into the soundscape of the screen.

Dent finishes, transfluid streaking Rung’s front. Slip pulls down Rung’s helm down and finishes on his face.

The spike between his legs pulls out and Rung feels hot transfluid splatter along his aft and back. Coordinated bunch. Even the screen is quiet, as if it too has completed.

His helm is grasped by a single servo, digits digging into his optical ridge, and yanked back upwards. Frame arching painfully before being pulled flush against Dipper once again.

“See Rung? It’s so, _so_ easy for us to indulge in these _films_ you’ve created for us. I’m absolutely positive the rest of the crew would be happy to look over any potential consent issues for their own _pleasure._ ” He breathily nips Rung’s audial sensor. “Though, we will compromise for you today. Keep up the good work and we’ll keep up not handing the files out like rust sticks. How does that sound sweet-spark?”

Rung nods, tears forming, and they’re still watching him. Waiting for a proper response.

“Thank you,” his voice cracks, “I’ll do my best.”

Dipper pats his helm, “Good, good. Now what’s our mantra?”

He holds back his tears the best he can, helm tilted, optics on ceiling.

“My…”

“Yes Rung?”

“My—”

“Your—”

“- worth is only to help others, no matter what that entails,” we say in unison.

“—isn’t it?” Dipper finishes, pulling away.

He comes around, the other mechs making room for his large presence, and pulls Rung’s helm up into a lingering kiss. He draws back, slightly, close enough for their lips to still touch as he whispers, “sleep well Rung.”

They leave him like that as they leave together - transfluid drying on his frame, screen graciously dark.

_My worth is only to help others._

I hang my head and break down in full frame sobs.

  
  


°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°

It takes 2 days to steal Brainstorm’s attention away from Perceptor enough to convince the mech that I present an interesting enough challenge. The integrated weaponry mounted in my chest. The spray they produce at the range isn’t good enough. Needs to be tighter, more precise.

It doesn’t take long for the mech to change that. He adjusts the guns, and also upgrade’s my guidance systems as well.

Brainstorm leaves the range with me feeling brilliant, the smug little scientist. A pat on my guns and a little smile is how he leaves, but I stay.

I stay, and the range is a great place, and audials dialed down leaves the world _good_.

I practice my aim, go through scenarios, and am not tempted by engex in the slightest.

 

…

 

But my hand-to-hand isn’t good enough. I ask Drift, the only mech on ok enough terms with me that I know I can’t ‘accidentally’ kill with training room rules. Because really, there are no accidents when you’re fighting for your life, even when training.

By the look in his optics when he agrees, he probably hates me enough to be willing to leave a few scratches of his own.

And he does. I get my aft handed to me over and over, but at least he teaches me some too. Don’t even need to visit Ratchet by the end of it, and Drift leaves in good spirits - looking forward to doing this again sometime soon. I will indulge him. I certainly need the practice against well trained mechs like him.

I will not indulge in engex, not tonight. I’m solving things without it.

 

…

 

Everything else is a blurr.

There isn’t much else a weapon can do. Everyday I visit the range, then still running hot, go train with Drift. I feed myself enough to produce the necessary munitions. I pace a lot in my hab.

I thought I was there, but now my claws are digging through piles of weaponry. Unfinished, unapproved, extremely experimental and so obviously Brainstorm’s. I can’t stop. I need to find the perfect _thing_ the perfect something to be at-the-ready with.

But Brainstorm’s yelling in my face, pushing me away. I can’t hear him, don’t even realize I’ve been pushed out the lab, door locked, hallway cold.

Didn’t even bother giving a quip or some kind of answer to whatever the mech was saying. I don’t even know why or what I was doing. What could I be doing? What’s left to prepare?

The hallways blend into one and suddenly morph into the familiar cold comfort of my hab. In bed, curled around blankets, afraid that if I go anywhere else it’ll be to Swerves. And primus knows I won’t be able to control my engex intake. I’d get raging plastered, and be out of my mind by the time security managed to subdue me. In the brig and out of commission for this mission for sure. And honestly, I wouldn’t care how long I’d stay there, as long as I’d be able to irritate some unlucky mech and not have to confront my own murky thoughts.

And primus do I ever want to not be here. I don’t want to be in this position, I don’t want to think these thoughts, and I don’t want to wait. Cyclonus shouldn’t have interrupted me back on Cybertron. Should’ve finished the job when he had the chance.

I can’t run from this. I can’t find relief at the bottom of the bottle. I can’t do anything.

Rung needs help, and so much of it. That nerd, he could be having anything done to him, and do I ever know how fucked up autobots can get during my time in the war. Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it’s effects on a mech’s mind just disappear overnight.

How far would they push it? How far would they go? He’s still alive, or else another mech probably would’ve gone missing. They haven’t stolen Ratchet, or First Aid, so how are they keeping him alive? Any mech in wartime gets to pick up a few patchjob tricks along the way, but, how good could they really be? They couldn’t have messed with him too bad, physically, or they’d have killed him already.

But if the wounds are purely psychological, then it’s anyone’s game. As a psychologist, the doc can probably handle himself. He’s a tiny but tough nut to crack, and could definitely, probably, hold up under pressure. There’s a reason the wreckers had used him - he never spilled a single secret. Nothing. Not beyond enemy lines, and not to autobot high command. If a mech tells him not to share, then it won’t be. He’s a good mech, a sweet, good mech. I trust him, at least in the regard of keeping a secret. But it’s, it’s hard to show it, or even believe it sometimes. It takes a few reminders to get the ol’ trusting train back running again.

Rung is ok, he’s going to be ok, he is ok.

That… that is a lie. He can hold his own, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t taking damage, that he’s not cracking under the surface. How much pressure can a mech truly take before they buckle? He could be an entirely changed mech if he comes back. When he comes back. But what then? Would he even be able to get back to normal? Would I still stay his patient?

I miss him.

A call coming in. Ultra Magnus of the Fuck Off Accord.

I take a moment, a solid vent, and connect.

<Whirl. I hear you’re getting into trouble.>

<Hey->

<Regardless, Operation Flow has been in effect for the past week. It will continue for another three days. If nothing happens then we’ll be forced to take more drastic measures.>

<Such as?>

<Interrogation.>

<Uh, huh.>

<We’re not sure if he’s even alive at this point. We haven’t seen, or heard word of Rung, or any action taken against him.>

<Are you saying you’re giving up? Are you big guy? Cause I will rip this ship apart for him and kill anyone who’s _ever_ laid a servo on him. If you are.>

<And I will be forced to arrest you if you do. Whirl, I want you to consider the possibility that he’s dead, and that we’ll be taking more aggressive measures to find the frame and all criminal agents involved.>

<Frag you. Do _not_ force my hand. >

I disconnect. Anger, rage, _what ever_ burns in my gut. In my lines. Clouds my H.U.D. as I turn into the nearest wall, laying wreck, destruction into them. Wishing. _Wishing it were them._

Everything I have spills out, and just as the time paces, I’m drained. Helm slumped against the wall. Arms heavy.

Years of war have twisted any training held for hostage situations. I remember my brief days with the Rodion Police Force, and this, this wouldn’t be how they handled things. Terrible thugs they were, they still had training. They’d look for a motive, they’d _ask_ for a motive. They’d communicate with the mechs and walk them through any problems they had. They’d be there every step of the way, and Rung would have a chance to be returned safely. At the very least they couldn’t torture the mech while surrounded by authority figures. They could give the mechs a chance to get what they really wanted, instead of taking it out on a civilian.

Not. Not this.

Security shouldn’t be lying in wait. This isn’t a drug smuggling ring. This isn’t ambushing Decepticons.

This is an active hostage situation, and they should, even I should be intervening.

  


┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ ⟨ ⏣ ⟩ ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

Complications have been piling up. Errors only growing in his H.U.D. There’s so much an informally trained Medic can do every time Rung’s been dragged into his eager service. Sometimes jitters from misfiring nerves. Connections not welded right, things not fitted properly.

This time, this most recent complication, his energy regulation system corrupted, or broke. Medic isn’t sure which one, but is all too fond on tinkering around inside of his patient to find out. Plating, shoved aside, entrails moved away from the source of the problem. It’s painful, but Rung is used to it. With limbs bolted down there’s nothing he can do anyways. Anything except wait.

But whatever Medic did, didn’t work. He tells the mechs waiting that the part is too far damaged - it’ll have to be replaced, and in the meantime there will be bouts of energy loss and fainting. He wants to tinker further, but the mechs surrounding have waited for too long. They’re eager for Rung’s company, and they inform Medic of their need, in more ways than one.

In the end, Rung is welded back up. The potential for the schedule to be caught up, high in the air. It’s funny, the condensation, pain soaked, and shaking mech thinks - they always call him by his name… No mech or group on this ship has consistently done so.

There’s another scuffle, and Rung blacks out.

When he awakens, groggy, he’s strapped down in a chair.

Rack is in front of him, holding a knife, and a sort of anguish washes over Rung. Rack _likes_ playing with knives.

Before he can even glance at the systems reset report, Rack says, “I’ve been waiting so long to spend time with you, Rung.” his voice is hoarse as always, but a new, desperate(?) edge stings through, “I’m sure you of all mechs know of how _full_ the schedule has been. I haven’t been able to visit since you came back to us. I’m so happy to see you doc.”

He kneels in front of Rung, resting his long arms on Rung’s disfigured legs.

“I hope you’ve been resting well.” he brushes a servo along Rung’s faceplates, following the stretch cuts along his mouth, “I’ve missed quite a bit, haven’t I,” he whispers, almost breathlessly.

He snaps his servo away, optics darting along Rung’s frame. “They’ve kept everyone up to date of course. Messages, pictures, videos, net streams - the like. But of course it’s never the same thing as being in the room, up close and personal.” His servos rest now on Rung’s sides, between the shoulder seams and his hips. “They wanted to get as much in as they could before I got to you it seems. Though really, look at you. They’ve certainly put a number in, haven’t they. Taking care of their wants… You must be so tired,” he says, smiling. His field actually feels warm, and inviting.

Rung is tired. So tired. It would be so easy to allow himself to be sweet talked to, to be taken care of.

But he can’t allow himself to fall into a false sense of security. He knows what’s coming.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” he says, breathless, as he takes the knife into view. “The schedule’s been so full of the other mech’s wants, that I haven’t been able to carve pretty glyphs into your plating. I’ve wanted to continue from our last session. I’ve wanted… You’ll help me with my wants too, won’t you Rung? You’ll be a good mech for me and try your best not to struggle, won’t you?”

He stares at Rung expectantly, sweetly. Like this was a choice, like Rung has the ability to submit consent on this. He knows the words he has to say, has been through this enough times with Rack before the vent. The hook itches with that memory.

Rung’s frame starts to shake, and he looks away from the mech patiently stroking his sides. He wouldn’t be able to get away if he tried. It’s useless. There’s no one coming for him, and he just needs to accept his use as a comfort item to these mechs. At least they get his name right. They care for him that much at least. That’s more than the rest of the ship can claim.

He looks back at Rack, at the mech’s optics, at what he hopes is sincerity in them. It will hurt, and the hurt will linger for weeks. Medic can’t do much for him after Rack gets the go-ahead. But at least he’ll be fed. It only took one time of never replying for Rung to realize they’d just starve him until he gave in. He technically died until Medic brought him back. Which is fair enough, he supposes. Denial for denial. He doesn’t deserve much else.

And he’s not sure he could make it through another death. There’s only so many times a mech can rebuild themselves before the foundation cracks.

He’ll just have to just buckle in and let Rack do whatever makes him feel well this time. I should’ve noticed his history when I checked the crew listing upon arrival. I had no right to do so, and in that position again I would never, but I should have. And that’s on me for not noticing what could’ve happened. It’s always his fault, and he has this coming. He deserves the hurt coming for him. He deserves this.

“I will, thank you Rack.”

“Excellent! I knew you would. You’re so helpful, Rung.” he says with a smile, patting Rung’s’ cheek. “I hope you don’t mind the commentary - I do enjoy talking, especially to one who listens as well as you.”

His right side is felt up, servos sliding against the plating there. It would be almost relaxing if Rung wasn’t so tense for what’s to come. “Please relax Rung, I want the energon to flow freely. Please don’t make me medicate you.”

He tries deep breathing, and it helps, a little. Enough for Rack to pat him happily, and pick up the unforgotten knife.

Rung looks straight ahead, over Rack’s helm and to the far wall. It’ll end soon enough.

The tip touches his plating, and he has to fight back a shiver. It presses in, ever so slightly, and Rack drags it along in long strokes.

Then mech begins to talk to himself, but Rung doesn’t pay any mind. There has never been a quiz or negative repercussions for not paying attention to the incredibly in depth descriptions to what the mech is doing. He doesn’t need to know anything more than the fact that he’ll etch out the design like this, and then go in deeper, through several passes. He feels a pang of guilt for not continuing to uphold his title as an avid listener. He shouldn’t, not this mech nor anyone else who’s felt the need to mark his frame, and yet he can’t help but follow the path of their design.

Rung’s herd previous patients talk of tattoos, and though while not wanted, or needed, this could be considered a variation of such. It doesn’t take much concentration to believe himself to be in a parlar getting a lover’s designation engraved on him, to have a favored poem, or a beautiful design or painting marked upon him.

Some used to call it branding, but if the mech enjoys it and no harm has come to them or those around them, then certainly it shouldn’t be perceived as harmful.

It’s important to surround yourself with things you enjoy. Personal happiness and self satisfaction are important to a mech’s wellbeing.

He wonders what has happened to his model ships.

“So, Rung, I know you’re not interested in what I’m saying. How about we make this a little more interesting for you, hm? You’ve had patients here on this ship - I’d love to know more about them. Would you care telling me some… fun, scraplet sized bits of information about them? How about their names? Interesting features? How about how their plating feels? I swear I’ll make it good for you if you do.”

“Oh, no. No thank you I’d really rather not.”

“Oh, are you sure? Don’t you like it when mechs ask you questions about your work?”  
“I do, but not now. Not about my patients.”

Rack stays silent, unmoving, optics searching Rung’s. Maybe he should emphasize his need to not disclose any information about his patients in this manner, or, at all.

“Please, I’d rather not.”  
Rack smiles, helm tilting on an angle. He shrugs, and looks back to his… work. “Oh, that’s ok. I understand.”  
The minutes feel like hours, and Rack is talking so avidly. Clearly passionate about his craft. Maybe he should suggest the mech picks up metal carving, or sculpture building. But Rung is shivering, and it’s so hard to think with the energon pouring freely from his wounds. At least this time his tank levels are broken. At least he doesn’t have to watching it trickle down slowly, until he’s forced into statis and Medic’s arms. This time it’ll be a surprise. He’s not sure if he should be happy, or cry.

But oh it doesn’t matter. All he can concentrate on now is the thick condensation finding home on his plating. He feels so warm, like he has a processor fever or a similar aliment. He’s so warm, but he’s shivering. His wounds are so hot.

And the time passes ever slowly.

Rack suddenly stops. Lays down his knife, and looks intently at Rung’s right optic. Unbelievably in his intentness.

Rung tries to focus on the mech, but even that seems to becoming too difficult for him.

Rack sounds, he sounds as though he’s captivated by the mechanisms of Rung’s optic?

“-I can barely see them behind that casing, Rung. Those inner mechanisms, so beautiful. I must see them. That casing has to go.”

He stands up, moving out of Rung’s field of view.

He comes back, wielding a drill.

“You’re good at keeping secrets, right Rung? Yes?”

Rung nods, yes, I’m fairly adept at doing so. But how does that relate to the drill, and his optic casing? He’s so disoriented, and warm. Nothing makes sense. A drill? Rack adores his knives more than drills.

Rack grabs Rung’s chin and holds his helm still.

He aligns the drill to Rung’s right optic.

Rung’s optics widen, and he tries to shake the mech off. It doesn’t work.

The tip scratches against his optic casing, and is drawn back again. He knows what the drill’s for. He _knows what it’s for_ and this can’t come to be.

This can’t be happening.

“This’ll be our little secret ok Rung? Don’t tell the others and I swear, I swear it’ll only hurt a little bit Rung?”

Rack doesn’t want an answer. This will come to be.

The drill roars to life.

It reaches glass. Screeching, twirling shards. The drill is his entire vision.

It gives way.

He screams. Agony. Arms tied - can’t defend.  

Black. His vision is gone in the right optic. It’s _gone_.  

His nose blocks the left from seeing, but he can feel the _sensitive mechanisms_ drool out. _Irreplaceable._

He can feel them flow down his face. Mix with energon. Drip into his mouth.

He can’t stop.

He can’t close it. He can’t stop screaming.

It _hurts_!

And the drill drives in further.

Let him push it all the way through. Please stop this agony!

It’s pulled out. Turned off. Quiet falls.

Errors are everywhere. He wants to cover the wound. To hide. To heal. To -

“I’m going to poke around in there now.”

His spark almost stops spinning.

No. No no no no no no.

“No, please.” he makes out between pained gasps. “ _Please_.”

It will make no difference. He won’t listen. Mouth could be welded shut again. There’s no point in begging.

He starts crying. Shaking. The fluid mixes with energon. And his irreplaceable delicate internals. Ruined.

Rack doesn’t care. Admiring his handy work. Turning Rung’s helm this way and that. His helm too close.

A knife. Racks knife comes into view. Rack is smiling.

Another mech, can’t focus, takes away Rack’s attention. Thank you.

They talk. Can’t hear. Can’t understand. Seem aggravated.

The mech leaves. Can hear Medic’s voice, far away.

Rack is swearing, and things are happening. Rung’s so tired, so in pain. Can’t concentrate. Want to, but willpower isn’t working.

He’s gone quiet, except for the strained sound of his breathing.

But there’s plenty of sound around him. Things are being packed up, it seems. Maybe? Maybe they’ll leave him here to bleed out and finally die.

But no, he’s being unstrapped from the chair. Chain detached from his hook.

Being lifted. Held by a mech. It’s almost nice, to be held so delicately. Like someone cares.

So much movement happening around him. But what rush could they be in? They’re usually slow, and deliberate. Never in a hurry, not like this.

They’re… packing up? Hurrying? Would they be leaving this room? Perhaps changing location? Does it matter? Maybe the crew’s found him. Maybe they actually were looking. But it’s too late. They’re too late for this old and broken mech.

He wants to be happy at this possibility, but there’s no chance. _No one_ cares for Rung. He’s just to be used.

His helm is pressed into the mech holding him.

And then they’re moving. There’s different lighting here.

He’s repositioned into being carried under arm. The ground sways under him. Blurry.

His limbs ragdoll with the movement of the mech’s sprint, and he’s running out of energy to stay awake. Energy, or damage.

Today’s wounds. Yesterday’s welds. The remnants of the days before, they all flare-up and _burn_. He can feel hot sticky energon flee from his body as so many welds open up again and again.

It’s all he can do to keep quiet. He must refrain from screaming, but he doesn’t know why. But he must, and so he does.

Everything stops.

He can hear a loud, oh so loud voice shouting. He can’t understand the words, he can’t understand the spinning ground below him. He can’t do anything. He’s useless. Broken. In pain.

There’s many voices shouting now, and it’s so _loud_.

How is he still awake? Alive? He feels things shift inside of him, and it _hurts._ But he doesn’t complain. He will never complain.

The shouting stops.

Loud bangs. Shooting. Gunfire.

Justled.

Being held out.

He can see the blurry details of a hallway full of mechen. He hopes no one’s hurt.

Something pierces his leg. His vision swims further, and he feels darkness dragging him down.

The gunfire stops.

And Rung passes out.

 

 

°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°l||l°

Quiet punctures both sides into stalemate. The main culprit looks confused, uncertain.

Ultra Magnus shouts something but I don’t hear it. I don’t care. I track the movements of the mech holding Rung’s limp frame, waiting for the go-ahead. Weapons systems primed and ready. I don’t concentrate on Rung’s frame, on his injuries, of the weird thing on his chest.

The holding mech starts spouting scrap, and I focus in.

“-face justice? Face justice for what? We’ve treated Rung with nothing but respect during his stay!-”

The mech is making grand gestures with the arm not holding Rung. The movement is jostling the unconscious mech. Who, looking closer, is starting to grey out. Primus how injured is he? Doesn’t matter right now.

“Mech, stand down,” booms Ultra Magnus. Can feel that voice in your struts. But the mech doesn’t listen, or doesn’t seem to care.

“-but if you want to call him a scrap heap of a micro-leech then go ahead!” He’s still justling Rung around. Something spurts from his slack mouth. I can feel Ratchet’s fretting field from here. “Leave him to a ship that doesn’t care, that considers him worth less than a fleck of half digested energon, then go ahead! Take his greyed frame then!”

Holding mech, gun in hand, starts moving it up.

Battle protocols activate and the mech’s movements slow. He’ll aim it at Rung’s helm.

Firing metrics sighted. I need that go ahead Magnus!

It comes in the form of a ping.

Holding mech’s elbow explodes. Rung, arm, and gun fall to the ground with a wet heap. The mech screams, holding his new stump.

Shock stalls the enemy forces, and Magnus and Co move in.

I don’t care about them anymore. Not now. I’m by Ratchet’s side providing covering fire. I don’t have time to take in the mess of Rung, and I don’t want to.

A scan, quick medic hands.  

No more gunfire. All clear.

I turn back to Ratchet and Rung opens his optics. Shaking servo settling on Ratchet’s, only to go limp again. Unconscious. _Not dead_.

Ratchet’s doing something. Rung looks terrible and I fight against purging. Fight against freezing. Against crying. This is insane. No mech deserves this.

Ratchet’s done. Transforms to alt, and I load Rung into the back. He’s so light. Greying out. Delicate.

I slam the doors shut, and tires squeal down the hall, siren at full blare.

I watch them go. Frame numb. I’ve used Primus’ name as an expletive plenty, but now? Now all I can do is use it in prayer.  

Primus, please let you be safe Rung. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a headcanon of mine that it’s harder for Rung to read facial features, body language, and EM fields without his glasses. In my headcanon, they are a special assistive device given to him by a dear friend early in his life. 
> 
> This chapter took a ridiculously long time to write, so let me know what you think!


End file.
